When I was a little girl I loved presents. It was the element of surprise. The wrapping paper. The bow in my favorite color. The note attached with string, We love you. “Mom and Dad”. I would open the box and squeal with delight, “Oh, I wanted this so much!” While growing up, I didn’t get a lot of gifts. My mom had nine brothers and sisters, they each had three kids, so we all just received love. My dad’s mom sent money. I would go out and buy myself a surprise. In my immediate family, I felt unconditional love…

she made a decision

she created a plan

a get away

for keeps

she packed her things

sold stuff

uncluttered her life

of what to do

who to be

the day arrived

she grabbed the leashes

kissed stella

hugged randall

the three of them

one

off they went

no tears

no fears

as new jersey

blurred out of sight

the landscape changed

the rest stops

the hotels

the donkey on the street

a new life

was in front of her

how brave she was

she drove and drove

no guarantees

but she knew

santa fe was waiting

on the other…

i was lying in the dark

the only light was my phone

the stars were twinkling down

outside my window

i was lying face down

my right arm extended

my right leg planted

over to the left

foot down

i exhaled

and then there was a spider

looking at me

from under the baseboard

she started running

terrified of me

to not lose the pose

i watched

as she scrambled

behind boxes

peeking out

dashing to the next

chair leg

i just watched

and thought

what she must think of me

she crossed the room

stopped

gazed at me

and…

i do not remember what you said

only what you did not say

the empty space got in the way

a silent wall

Impossible to embrace

there is no trail

of words

that linger for me to hold

just the hum of quiet

the owl in the neighboring wood

the cricket in the the blue

and you

standing in the misty fog

where years unravel

and silence is forever true

— patty

photo@unsplash

“The liberty of a democracy is not safe if the people tolerated the growth of private power to a point where it becomes stronger than the democratic state itself. That in its essence is fascism: ownership of government by an individual, by a group, or any controlling private power.” — Franklin D. Roosevelt

we kill the clover

the birds

the caterpillar

the butterfly

the bees

eventually

you and me

we give up the song

the painted wings

the dance

the honey

for the lawn

yards of green

the deer

the opossum

the raccoon

the skunk

the cat

the dog

eat the grass

we never know

how long

they then last

we sit at the window

admire the green

the empty skies

the only sound

the whisper of blades

the eeriness of tomorrow

in our quest to be owner

rather than to borrow

this glorious planet

from tomorrow

our luck is diminishing

our mere…

it is true

i am a guesthouse

this being human is a guest house

every morning a new arrival

i never know

who will arrive

at my door

a golden sun

a hope undone

a broken friend

a hungry deer

a fallen bird

a homeless kitty

a one eyed tabby

i take them in

each and every one

i love them

to the very end

they teach me

how to love myself

they always fill

my empty glass

and as the years

grow old and pass

they line my face

with joy and strife

my heart stays strong

i carry…

my head

is an artistic studio

it runs films

documentaries of my life

memories replay

and places

i have never ever seen

or dreamed

are in photos

scrolling past

my third eye

imagined just for me

thoughts come and go

and words

drop like leaves

from a tree

in the fall

different hues

unfinished poetry

stacked and waiting

for perfect words

that tie a thought

into a phrase

awareness

imagery

keep me up

wake me up

the studio

in my head

messy beyond measure

yet beautifully eclectic

off beat

full of hidden treasures

but in regards

to my heart

oh…